


it just stays shaking

by the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells (the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (you know what I mean when I tag that in a dr who fic), Angst, Assume all of the original work's content warnings will apply, Blood, Breeding Kink, Chains, Collars, Consensual Feral Play, Enthusiastic Consent Later, F/M, Forced Captivity, Forced Feral Play, Identity Porn, Minor Violence, Muzzles, Name-Calling, Necks, Rough Sex, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, allusions to bestiality, forced pet play, lots of guilt, mention of drowning, mentions of slavers, or at least the consent is dubious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24857950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells/pseuds/the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells
Summary: She isn’t expecting this to get any easier, not by any means, but the shock collar is a new low.xA fanmade sequel to TheseusInTheMaze's"and it bakes in the bad sun"
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan (mentioned)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [and it bakes in the bad sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010541) by [TheseusInTheMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, it's too fun of an idea for me not to take a crack at it.
> 
> If you're starting here, you need to read Theseus's fic first.

She isn’t expecting this to get any easier, not by any means, but the shock collar is a new low. 

The fact that the idea was born out of necessity doesn’t ease the guilt. Nor does it make her feel any better when she realizes it’s the best thing she’s come up with since caging the Master. 

She tries not to think about how long he’s been captive here on her TARDIS, but with her innate Time Lord senses it’s unavoidable. He’s been trapped here for months. At least according to the Earthen scale of time measurement she defaults to for the sake of her companions. Perhaps if she counts in Wroxan quads it’ll feel less like she’s become some sort of monster. 

The Master has barely been here for a third of a Wroxan quad. That’s not much of one. In the lifespan of a Wrox, that’s only—

—their entire childhood. It’s tragic, really; such beautiful creatures, with hundreds of rich cultures, and yet they die far too quickly to make the fullest of it. 

She doesn’t feel any better. 

There’s been a plan lurking in the Master’s eyes since the moment she first chained him up. She can’t tell whether it’s mutable and ever-shifting in the face of each day’s new events, or one solid, foolproof plan he has yet to spring for some reason or another. Neither option is forgiving. She knows from experience.

Regardless, she has the house advantage. The TARDIS is a steadfast warden, constantly vigilant and even bolstering her own telepathic shields on the days when she comes back tired and they waver. She’s far too used to letting him in, be it casual contact or a deep bond, and he’s always been better at telepathy. Even now he’s snapping at her figurative heels like a rabid mutt, his mental presence lurking close to hers but kept separate. Like oil and water. 

The fam are all asleep. Have been, ever since she ventured out. Being human, they have no way of feeling the difference between the smooth rhythms of backwater Time Vortex channels and being stationary; provided the TARDIS has a gentle landing (which she ensured this go around) the transition never wakes them. 

It’s for the best. The slave markets of Orohai are not a place she’d ever tell them about, let alone bring them to. She abhors them herself. But getting the collar was necessary. 

For a sophisticated piece of slaver tech outlawed in many galaxies, it’s very unassuming in her hands. A simple silver ring adjustable in size, programmed to obey a single individual’s DNA and voice. All of the circuitry is hidden under the smooth metal. 

Perhaps shock collar was an oversimplification. She’s used to glossing over complicated details for the sake of her companions. However, they will never learn about this (or the fact that she has the Master bound and muzzled right under their noses.) Only the Master will know, and he will certainly recognize the technology. 

The collar sends pain signals of varying intensity to the wearer’s brain whenever they do something against its owner-designated protocol. It has no maximum threshold, and thus the potential to be lethal if so desired. 

Ruled cruel by countless governments, but effective. And when it comes to the Master, the one who would happily level entire civilizations, she thinks she can make an exception. She has to. It’s not like she’s going to let it kill him, after all. She already knows she doesn’t have it in her to put him down. Even if she should. 

After the Doctor eases the TARDIS back into the Time Vortex, she quickly gets to programming the collar. Keeping the Master chained to the wall was a temporary solution— this will work better in the long run. 

(How long is this going to go on? What if she foils every single one of his escape plans? Can she do this for a decade? A century, like with Missy in the Vault? Longer?)

Attacking her will result in a shock of pain that will incapacitate him long enough for her to regain the upper hand. She tests it to make sure— it does. Once she can breathe again, she notices that the Master’s mind has piqued with curiosity. 

He’ll learn soon enough. She sits up and grabs the collar from where she had dropped it and gets back to work. 

More than a hundred feet away from her without prior permission will give him a warning sting, and then take him down. Tool use: immediate disable. She goes through every possibility and loophole she can think of, setting up contingencies and command words for each. If all goes according to plan, she can give the Master a bit more freedom without compromising security. Enough space to run around his enclosure, per se, since they’re both sticking to the zoo metaphor. 

She wonders why he does. Is it fun for him to go along with this new game she’s come up with? Does he think it’ll get under her skin? Is this a war of attrition rather than complex plots? 

If he’s hoping to play on her bleeding hearts, he won’t have a chance. Keeping him here ensures that no one will bear the brunt of his wrath. No one but her, at least, and the collar will keep him from trying anything physical. Words are another story. She won’t gag him, not when he’s already muzzled. The alternative would be making him communicate telepathically or not at all. She won’t take that risk, either to her mental defenses or of the Master not being able to—

—to what? Speak a safe word? This isn’t a game, and beasts in need of rehabilitation don’t get to sass their keepers. She ponders programming the collar to enforce muteness, but can’t bring herself to do it. 

There’s nothing left to do now but make the transition. She checks the console to make sure the fam is still sleeping —for once grateful for how they need hours to recharge— and then descends into the bowels of the ship. 

The Master, too, is asleep when she enters his room. He’s curled up next to the wall he’s chained to, so the choke collar is slack around his throat. His hands, kept useless in their restraining mitts, are tucked into his chest. Combined with his lack of clothing and the black wire muzzle on his face, he looks like an animal. 

She doesn’t get to see him sleep often, and she knows he will wake soon at her presence, so she takes a moment to remain still and gaze at him. His expression is peaceful and his breathing is calm. It’s almost weird to behold, considering his usual manic fervor. She wishes she could see that look on his face more often. Maybe if she did she wouldn’t need to keep his arms and legs shackled like she does. 

Either way. No time like the present. 

The Doctor closes the door behind her and crosses the floor to kneel beside him. He’s already stirring from her footsteps. 

“Now this isn’t part of our scheduled programming,” the Master says, voice thick with sleep as he looks up. His eyes are bleary but quickly starting to sharpen. She needs to get this over with. 

“Come to fuck me again?”

She winces. Even the first... _incident_ was wrong of her to let happen, but the fact that she allowed a few repeat performances is worse. Not that her morality had stopped her from getting on her hands and knees and letting him mount her. 

“Open collar to receive,” she whispers, almost guiltily. The smooth metal collar splits and she lowers it to his neck. The Master jerks away on instinct, like an unruly mutt, but stills when she perseveres and puts it around his throat anyways. His eyes have lit up with intrigue. 

“A mindshocker, Doctor?” His face splits into a grin behind the muzzle. “Specially ordered from Orohai, I presume?”

“Shut up,” she grunts. Then, louder for the collar: “seal and commence protocol.”

As the metal closes and melts into a seamless ring, the Master laughs. He looks delighted, which isn’t doing much to convince her that this is still a good idea. At least she can unchain him from the wall. 

In his months of captivity, he’s gotten skinnier despite her diligent care. Even with a steady, nutritious diet, there’s only so much she can do when it comes to his exercise. The shackles keeping his arms bound and his legs hobbled don’t allow for anything strenuous. His walks around the track she brings him to aren’t very helpful either, since freeing his legs to walk upright means she has to hold him by his leash to keep him from bolting.

Not anymore. With deft fingers she unbuckles the Master’s choke collar. He’s shaking it off before she can even do it for him, and it drops on the floor with a clatter. He grins up at her again. 

“Any violence will take you out,” she explains as she unlocks the shackles binding his arms. He stretches them gratefully. For the first time in a while, his movements aren’t accompanied by the clinking of chains.

“I figured,” he replies, looking far too smug. 

She soldiers on. “Tool use, running away, theft, you get the gist.”

“I’m a good dog,” he informs her, bringing his mitts up to his chest in the way a dog would beg. She grimaces and it makes him laugh. When his mind presses against her barriers, she gently rebuts him.

She tries to be kind to him. He just makes it difficult by speaking of Gallifrey burning, or of the experiments done on her as a child. 

“Legs, too, or are you going to make me crawl?” 

“You said you’d be a good dog,” she reminds him before she can stop herself. At that, the Master’s eyes glitter. With a smirk he raises himself up onto his hands and knees, crawling to the door leading out with a grace he absolutely should not possess. 

Dog? More like a wolf.

When she catches herself staring she hurries to get ahead of him and open the door. He lets his shoulder brush her leg as he exits. 

“First door on the right,” she tells him, gesturing down the corridor where they’re headed. The TARDIS has made the hall a lot longer than it was earlier. Clearly she’s still holding a grudge from the paradox machine. The Master takes it in stride, beginning his slow yet even prowl. The Doctor keeps pace with him, hands stuck in her pockets. 

He doesn’t speak, which is shockingly obedient of him. At least for now he’s humoring her. 

When they approach the door she indicated, she lengthens her strides to open it before he reaches it. It slides open with a hiss, and the scents of grass and soil wash out and over them like a tidal wave. The Master perks, breathing deeply through his nose. A moment later he has reached the threshold and is poking his head inside curiously. 

Despite her grumblings, the TARDIS has outdone herself with what she has labeled his “enclosure” on the floor plan. It’s a room, but the walls are far enough apart that one could mistake it for an open space if they ventured further in. Closest to the door is a perfect meadow, lush with grass just short enough to allow the Master to see over when on his knees. The occasional wildflower dots the green with color— mostly Earth species, but with the odd alien one sprinkled in here or there. A breeze makes the grass ripple every once in a while. 

Around the meadow in every direction but their own is a forest. The trees are tall but easy to climb, the underbrush tame but not trimmed. In the mornings it will be misty and sparkling with dew. 

Within the forest is a river, or at least a replica of one that winds in a meandering path around the enclosure. Under the water at its source and its end there are grates that allow the current to flow without offering the Master an escape route. 

“Smells fake,” the Master remarks, just to be difficult. With her equally as keen nose she knows that it’s near identical to the real thing. 

“Take it or leave it,” she gripes, but he’s already creeping out into the meadow. She follows. 

“The collar and the TARDIS will make sure you behave.” 

He glances back at her. When she reaches him she bends over to unstrap the muzzle from his face. He works his jaw, then tilts his head inquiringly. It’s far too dog-like, and not even the mad dog mannerisms she’s seen since she caged him.

Is that a good sign? She doesn’t know. But he’s playing along at the very least. 

Finally, the leg shackles. With them removed he can stand, walk around, run. Yet when she takes them off he stays crouched at her feet. 

The way it pleases her instantly makes her queasy. She quickly shoves it down and straightens. The Master is kneading at the soil beneath him with his mitts. When he realizes she doesn’t intend to free his hands, she sees a flash of irritation

_of rabid, mad dog fever_

in his eyes. Just as quickly, it’s gone. 

“Enclosure protocol,” she tells the collar. It chirps in acknowledgement. 

“It’ll let you run now. The environment is set to an Earthen day/night cycle. You’ll get food regularly, and you can ask the TARDIS for snacks if you need.” 

At that the Master snorts. Finally he rises onto his feet, stretching. She tries not to feel bad at how his legs shake from disuse. He’ll be fine now. She turns and heads for the door. 

“That’s it?” The Master snaps, suddenly vicious and full of hatred. “Dumping me in here to ease your guilt? Treating me like an animal in a zoo?” She pauses and looks back at him. 

There it is. The mad dog. Now his shaking doesn’t remind her of an abused stray. Instead, it’s all pent up violence. His glare is searing and bright like flame. Once more he’s started throwing himself at her mental barriers, trying to force his way in. She doesn’t let him. 

“You don’t deserve any more than I give you,” she replies coolly. Then she keeps walking. 

The roar he lets out is nothing but bestial fury. It takes all of her willpower not to turn or dive out of the way, because she can hear him charging at her. Instead she focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. 

A howl, followed by a thump right at her heels. The Master’s mental assault stutters and ceases. He got close enough to trigger the collar and is now paying for it. She imagines him collapsed in an agonized heap, like she had been when she tested the protocol. 

Then she’s over the threshold, back into the sterile corridors of her TARDIS. The door automatically shuts behind her. Everything is silent save for her breathing and the ship’s ever present hum. 

It should be a relief. Peace and quiet, with no one pounding on her mental barriers. But she still doesn’t feel better. 

She doesn’t know if she ever will. 


	2. Two

After she leaves the Master in his new enclosure, she decides she’ll try to forget his anger and the guilt gnawing at her by taking the fam out to a beach planet. 

The TARDIS has landed on the edge of a cyan colored jungle, far enough above the shoreline to keep her dry, but close if they need to run back quickly. The Doctor doesn’t expect a catastrophe to rear its ugly head here, but she appreciates the old girl looking out for them. 

“This planet is famous galaxy-wide for its beaches,” she remarks over her shoulder as she leads the fam across sparkling, baby pink sand. The binary suns of this system are both high in the sky, so they’ve slathered themselves in sunscreen. They’re dressed for the occasion, in swim clothes and sandals. 

“Not that it doesn’t have other geographical features, mind. You should see the sky canyons at the south pole.”

Monologuing and info dumping, come to find out, are not distracting enough. Yasmin is looking at her with poorly disguised concern— she must be letting the weight on her shoulders show. The Doctor straightens her posture, claps her hands together, and gives a dazzling grin. 

“Swimming, anyone?” 

Ryan and Graham don’t need to be told twice. They hurry down to the tame, inviting surf, stopping only for a moment to shuck off their sandals. Yasmin, instead, lingers. 

“Something’s bothering you,” she says. Always perceptive. Too much so, sometimes.

“What gives you that idea?” She replies, stretching the grin wider like that will help. With a flourish she drops her greatcoat to reveal that instead of her usual getup, she too has a swimsuit on. It’s a simple TARDIS blue one piece— saving the world in a bikini was something she did once in her fifth regeneration, and she is not keen to repeat that. Still, it’s a lot more skin than she usually shows and Yaz’s eyes trail over her body involuntarily. They are only animals, after all. Even Time Lords, much as they might insist otherwise. 

Unbidden, the Master’s voice hisses in her memories. _‘Admit that you want to be fucked by this mad dog.’_

Shame rises like bile in her throat. She turns on her heel, heading over to where the boys are splashing around. She knows Yaz is following, but this gives her a moment to collect herself. By the time she wades into the warm, crystal clear water, she’s plastered a more convincing smile on her face. 

“Doctor,” Yaz pleads, catching her by the wrist. She turns her head. 

“I’m fine, Yaz. Just had a rough night. I get nightmares sometimes.” Neither of those are lies, and it seems to be enough to placate Yaz. Her expression softens, and she loosens the grip on her wrist. 

“Sorry. I just worry about you.” 

“I know.” The reassuring smile she gives Yaz now is genuine. “Now, how about we join the boys and have some fun?” 

X

She plays with her companions in the sea and teaches them about the local flora and fauna. When she notices she’s thinking about the Master too much, she drags them out of the water and back into the TARDIS to take them on a whirlwind tour of the planet’s beaches. Each is a different color and populated with benign and fascinating wildlife. She’s binging on the wonder in their eyes, shoving so many new experiences down their throats that they can barely catch their breath.

At lunchtime, they picnic at the top of the south pole’s sky canyons. Multiple times she almost inhales her food in her rush to tell them fun trivia or point out something they haven’t noticed. 

It’s so much that even Yasmin can’t see through it. By design, of course. Sometimes she can’t see through the facade herself. Almost. 

But then, naturally, the planet needs saving. A late afternoon tour of one of the planet’s few cities turns into mayhem as a flying, locust-like swarm of blobs of jelly descends from the heavens. They begin devouring any plant matter in sight, living or dead, creating chaos as food supplies and wooden structures alike are decimated. 

They’re herbivores that don’t exhibit such aggressively voracious behavior unless their existing feeding grounds have been threatened, so she and the fam end up taking a boat out to the great sapphire kelp beds to solve the case. The TARDIS is best left ashore, because she really doesn’t want it plummeting down to the sea floor again. 

By the time they’ve taken down an illegal kelp harvesting facility, stimulated the regrowth of the beds, ushered the jellies back to their home, and helped the locals figure out how to rebuild, it’s been three days. 

In the whirlwind of crime fighting and jelly wrangling, punctuated only by quick sleeps in the hold of the boat they’ve commandeered, she forgets this is a problem. Time machine, after all, things happen when she wants them to happen. 

They’re fresh off of a thank you party that evening, walking along a sandy path back to the TARDIS, when she remembers she has a fourth passenger— one who doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. She hisses a foul Gallifreyan curse. Thankfully the fam is trailing far enough behind her, not listening as they joke and laugh amongst themselves. 

She turns around to face them, continuing to walk backwards. “Come on, fam, you all must be dying for a wash. Chop chop!” Then she whips back around, quickening her pace to crest the hill before them. If her companions think she’s being weirder than usual, they don’t comment— and anyways, they _are_ still speckled with dried jelly. 

X

The reality of traveling in a time machine is that you get too used to having it. You’re able to pick and choose what happens around you, and in what order— it makes you forget that it doesn’t actually _stop_ time. That despite wherever or whenever you land, time in the interior of the ship progresses linearly. One and done, no do overs. 

She’s first into the console room, half expecting the cloister bell to be chiming. It isn’t. The fam piles in behind her; someone shuts the door. She makes it two more steps before a hurricane of fury smashes through her mental defenses. 

_hatehatehate_

_you left me here alone_

_animal I’ll show you animal_

_hate_

_snapping teeth gushing blood_

_you fucking coward_

She’s stumbling over her feet and crashing to the floor before she can slam her barriers back up and bolt their doors. When her vision stops swimming she processes that her companions are looking down at her with concern. She quickly sits up. 

“Klutz,” she wheezes with a hurried smile and a laugh, and they’re still so high off of victory that they take it at face level. After Ryan helps her to her feet and she waves them off, her companions are disappearing deeper into the ship to find their rooms and wash off the jelly residue clinging to them. 

Once the TARDIS has had a moment to reshuffle her corridors, the Doctor is heading for the Master’s enclosure. She hadn’t meant to be gone for so long. He was taken care of physically, yes, but she never intended to make him feel like he was being abandoned. They are in this together, always have been— but in the torrent of telepathy her mind had been impaled with, she could feel the lingering undercurrent of fear in his thoughts. He thought she was washing her hands clean of him. 

As a peace offering, she opens her mind a crack to send an apologetic reassurance. His mental storm batters her immediately, and she has to snap the connection shut again before she can even send the message his way. 

They’ll be doing this verbally, then. She isn’t sure whether that’s better or worse. 

The door to his enclosure slides open when she approaches it. Immediately after crossing the threshold it slams shut and locks behind her. The TARDIS is on edge too. 

The enclosure is disconcertingly quiet. No breeze makes the meadow rustle. She can pinpoint the distant sounds of the river, but that’s it. Aside from the plants, there are no organisms —real or simulated— in here but _him._

“Master?” She calls, knowing how he likes to hear her say his name. There’s no response. With a steadying breath, she resolves to track him down the old fashioned way. 

The grass in the meadow is still. Unless the Master is flat on his front and using his respiratory bypass, he isn’t here. She waits a few minutes anyways, scanning her surroundings for slight rustles or a quick inhalation. Nothing. He’ll be in the forest, then, where he can hide, observe, and plot. It’s what he prefers. 

As she enters the trees, she keeps her senses attuned to her surroundings. If he’s here, though, he isn’t giving the game up. The only sounds are her own movements and the river. She regrets just how much she kept him in mind while designing this enclosure. There are far too many places where he can be lurking with her none the wiser. 

Who is hunting who again? She’s second guessing herself now. 

She’s nearing the closest bend of the river. It’s more of a stream, really, deep enough in places for him to swim but shallow elsewhere for him to bathe. Equal parts utility and recreation.

There’s a splash of water, too loud to be anything but intentional. Bait for the trap. She sets her shoulders and follows the noise, waiting for his inevitable surprise. He can’t attack her, not unless he’s managed to outwit the countless contingencies she programmed into his collar _and_ hacked it without using any tools, but that doesn’t mean she’s comfortable. 

She steps out of the tree line and onto the bank of the river. Here it is deep enough in the middle that the water would be over their heads, though not by much. The enclosure’s cycle is currently at mid afternoon, and its synthetic sunlight makes the water sparkle. 

In the middle of the river, just above the water, rises a flat surfaced boulder. The Master is laying upon it with his eyes closed. He’s curled up, like a serpent coiled to bask in the sun. His mitts are still on. (Thankfully. One threat negated.) His hair is wet but he isn’t dripping water— he’s been waiting for more than a few minutes. Occasionally he dangles a foot in the water, stirring it back and forth against the current. That movement, combined with how he’s not making his breathing seem more even, tells her he’s not pretending to sleep. Just acting like he doesn’t care.

Their telepathic connection is silent to the point of eerie. He’s shielding himself completely. Maybe he noticed how she had picked up on his fear and is compensating now with affected apathy. 

She sees through it, though. This entire setup is for her. This is how they go about things: a performance against a performance with the roles changing each time. Hero and villain, seducer and victim, jailor and prisoner, beast and keeper, friends, enemies, more, nothing. She wonders what they would be if they abandoned it all (yet doesn’t dare.)

“I was gone longer than I expected,” she starts, and waits for the inevitable interjection. Nothing comes. 

“You know I wouldn’t leave you.”

The Master exhales at a pace that gives nothing away. His eyes are still closed. 

“You do, right?” Pleading, now. It isn’t good that she’s at this stage this early. When he doesn’t move she does, walking down the gentle slope of the river bank to the edge of the water. She toes off her shoes (borrowed wellies still stained pink from jelly) and folds her greatcoat beside them. It’s not like the clothes beneath (also borrowed and stained) haven’t gotten wet before. 

The stream is the perfect temperature to feel warm when you’re cold and cold when you’re hot. She walks in up to her ankles, watching him the whole time. He isn’t dangling his foot in the water anymore. 

“There was this whole thing with flying jellies and kelp plants— industrial plants, I mean, though they _are_ also plants...” She trails off. That will not get her anywhere. Instead she wades further into the river. 

Even that does not make him raise his head. She sighs loud enough for him to hear over the current, telegraphing her next course of action. (Performance against performance.)

When the water is deep enough to buoy her up she kicks and swims over to the Master’s boulder. He’s frozen atop it, like he’s been sculpted out of the stone. 

“Master,” she tries, placatingly as she draws up next to the rock. Then she grabs its edge to steady herself. The Master breathes in deeply. 

Belatedly, she remembers this is a trap. 

Then his eyes open. They’re rabid, burning, and his mind is screaming along with it. He’s thrust open the floodgates between their minds 

_hatehatehate_

and she’s nearly swept away. 

The Master roars and lunges at her. In the split second she has she realizes his plan: he can kill her as many times as he likes now without worrying about finite regenerations. He’s going to use his blunted hands to bash her head into the rock and knock her out. Afterwards he’ll be writhing on the stone from the collar’s reprisal, but she’ll be drowning. 

That won’t do. He’s too fast to dodge, but she can grab him too. She gets him by his hair and quickly brings her feet up in front of her. Then she uses them to push back off of the rock. He’s dragged with her, falling atop her and plunging them both under the water. Even then he’s still kicking and snapping at her, screams nothing but bubbles as he fights through the collar. 

It _should_ be subduing him beyond movement. It’s not. But he’s also clearly in agony, his mind broadcasting pain signals turned up to eleven. She realizes with a sick twist of her stomach that he’s spent his time alone acclimating himself to the punishment. 

The Master doesn’t need his hands to inflict damage. With a quick duck he gets lucky and bites down on her arm. She feels his teeth pierce the skin. When she opens her mouth to howl she chokes on water. 

By now both of their respiratory bypasses have kicked in. He isn’t releasing her arm despite how she’s scratching and clawing at him. For a panicked moment, she thinks this is how she’s going to die. 

_If we fight like animals, we die like animals._

No, she _isn’t_ a beast. Not like him. He’s fighting on instinct and she can outsmart that. Even better, _she_ can use her hands. 

She goes limp, ignoring the screaming pain in her arm. His jaw loosens a little in surprise. It’s far too soon for her to have succumbed to oxygen deprivation and she knows he knows that. 

His face is in easy reach from the bite. She’ll use that against him. She jabs him in the eyes with the fingers of her free hand. Not enough to maim, just to dislodge him. He inhales water and flinches back, mitts coming up to shield his face. She wastes no time to make a break for the shore as he flails. 

The Doctor scrambles up and onto the river bank with a gasp. Oxygen floods her system as she scrabbles at the wet dirt to drag herself higher up. Then she starts to cough to get the water out of her lungs. 

A moment later she hears the Master breach the surface behind her, gulping air with greedy breaths. Then the wet thump of paws _—mitts—_ on mud. Too close. He’s recovered from her assault already. A rabid dog ignoring pain. She braces for impact. 

Nothing happens. She just hears him dripping water behind her and panting hard. Even his mind is inscrutable now, or at least with a cursory check. She can’t pry too much at the moment. 

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, and coughs more. Her arm is stinging and leaking coppery blood where he bit her. She’s got dirt sticking to her everywhere. He can’t be more than a few feet behind her, probably plotting the best way to torture her without provoking the collar too much. That, or he’s licking his chops. Preparing to strike with slavering jaws. She should have put him down a long time ago. He’s beyond saving. 

“I was _good_ ,” he hisses instead. 

“What?” She croaks, still half incoherent. 

His voice is thick and spiteful. “The rules of the game. You told me to be good.”

She winces as that rings a bell. The thought of looking him in the eye now makes her want to hurl, so she stares down at her muddy hands. She remembers what she said. 

_‘You said you’d be a good dog.’_

Her own voice, strong and clear. The way the Master obeyed without objecting. He was humoring her. Playing along. To make her happy in hopes of better treatment? She feels sick. 

By his logic, she had given him the blocking of a performance. No different from the other ones they played at, really, where they were hero and villain or any other combination. Maybe he thought she was bored of their existing setup. So he had done as she said. 

_‘I was good.’_

She thinks of Paris up in smoke, suddenly. ‘ _How else would I get your attention?’_

And she still left. Abandoned him with no indication that she’d ever return. 

“That’s...” She falters, with growing horror. “That’s not what I meant. I—“

“You’re a shit zookeeper _,_ Doctor. Just because I’m not starving doesn’t mean you’re doing your job.” When she starts to turn, he pounces and pins her to the ground. She barely shuts her mouth in time to avoid getting mud in her teeth. 

“Timeless Child or not, you’re no better than me!” He snaps. “You _talk_ and _pretend,_ but if I’m an animal then _so are you.”_

She tries to reach out telepathically in a desperate bid to get him to understand she never meant any of this. He slaps her peace offering away. It’s coated with enough fury to leave her stinging. 

“Admit it!” He snarls. His mitts are on either side of her head as he uses his weight to keep her in the dirt. 

She tilts her face to the side to speak. “You’re not an animal.”

“Oh _really?”_ He retorts with mock surprise. “You’ve given me a lot of reasons to think otherwise.”

His mind drops a tangled mess of memories and stimuli atop hers like a bomb. 

_cold metal wire_

_‘I don’t trust you not to rip my throat out’_

_cramps in stiffly curled fingers_

_‘I want it’_

_bruises under a choke collar_

_‘mad dog’_

_her eyes, stern and imperious_

‘ _you said you’d be a good dog’_

“Stop!” She yells, far too loud. She must have accidentally let him into her mind, because now he’s slithering in deep. She feels fur on her skin and fangs grazing the back of her neck. He’s messing with her nerves again. 

“Admit it,” the creature on her back growls. It’s the Master’s voice, but there’s an undercurrent of _other_ to it. “You’re an animal just like me. You can’t pretend.”

“No!” She snaps. 

He’s silent for a moment. Sizing her up. She can feel his stare like it burns. Then he leans in, close enough for his hot breath to tickle her ear. 

“And yet you still want me.” 

What feels like a too-long tongue traces her earlobe. She shudders. It’s not entirely out of disgust and she hates herself for it. The beast rasps out a laugh. 

“No need to deny it. Underneath all of your morals and bluster, you’re a good _bitch._ Always have been.”

He punctuates his words with more memories. The image of her on her hands and knees, presenting her wet cunt to him. Her desperate cries of pleasure. The way she spasmed with ecstasy when he played with her nerve endings and made her think he was a feral animal. 

And then there are earlier memories, from younger bodies. The Master taking what they want, the Doctor yielding. Sometimes willingly, sometimes reluctantly, but there’s always a common theme: the way he, she, they never fail to come back to where they belong. 

“Beneath me,” the Master hisses. He’s hard now, erection pressing into her backside. With her wet clothing plastered to her skin, she misses nothing. Her breathing starts to pick up. 

Everything about this is terrible and wrong. It has been since the first time. But she’s still starting to get wet, still entertaining the idea of letting it happen again. 

The Master sniffs the air and lets out a smug laugh. She flushes with shame. He can _smell_ her stirring arousal. 

“Come, Doctor,” he purrs, voice still rough and different enough to be unsettling. “You know I won’t judge you for this. Call it animal magnetism.”

Her mind must prickle at the pun because he lowers his head to swipe his tongue over the nape of her neck. It’s a sensitive spot and it makes her jump. His tongue still feels too long and thin, its temperature hotter than a Time Lord runs. 

“I can do a lot with it now that you’ve taken the muzzle off,” he says, picking up on her thoughts. “Undress for me. You know you want me to take you.”

She grimaces, because he’s right. Even now, when he’s toying with her synapses and she’s aching and bleeding from wounds he inflicted. The adrenaline from earlier has become liquid desire in her veins. 

She hangs her head for a moment. He’s silent, letting her deliberate. He likes it best when she _chooses_ to give in. 

“Mad dog,” she whispers, to get a rise out of him. But he just laughs and licks her neck again. What feels like a snout bumps against her head. It makes her squirm. She’s only getting wetter. 

“I am,” he replies. “And I’m _yours.”_

_just like you are mine_

Echoes in his consciousness, dripping with lust. She shivers. They always end up here, don’t they?

She exhales slowly, the last measured breath she thinks she’ll take for a while. 

“Let me up.”

He slides off her, sensing her surrender. She finally turns over. 

The sensory illusions have dissipated for the time being, since visual input is more difficult to fake. Yet he still looks half feral as he stares at her, dirty from their scuffle in the mud, cock hard between his legs. She feels like she might be headed for a similar state. The raw desire in his eyes is enough to make her aware of how empty she feels. 

She peels off her shirt and tosses it away. Her bra follows. It’s more skin than she usually gives him and his eyes rove over her hungrily. 

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t give herself a chance to remember why this is wrong. The need in her core is enough to keep her in the present. She wriggles out of her trousers and her boxers, leaving her just as bare and filthy as him. 

_We’re not so different, you and I._

With their minds so deeply connected it could have been either of their thoughts. She slowly sinks back down to her knees, eyes on him. The Master raises a mitt and quirks his brow inquiringly. 

“I’m not daft,” she snaps, suddenly a weird mix of irritated, insulted, and self conscious. Even aroused she has enough common sense not to free his hands. 

“So you want the dog, then,” he replies, grinning. The smugness is rolling off of him in waves, saturating their whole telepathic link. 

She grimaces. “You don’t have to phrase it like _that.”_

He sniffs derisively. “I could have you coming on my fingers so many times if you would take these mitts off. But you won’t, because you _like_ it. You _like_ the idea of fucking a beast. When you aren’t fucking humans— but then, don’t they count?”

“Shut up,” she growls. His grin widens. 

“Funny you don’t muzzle them, even in the bedroom. I bet Yaz says the _sweetest_ things. Does she think she’s the only one you’ve fucked?” He creeps closer on all fours, leering at her. 

She glares back. “We are _not_ speaking about her.”

“Hmm, yes, you _do_ prefer your humans wide eyed and innocent. And conversational.” 

He fixes her with a heated stare. By now they’re eye to eye, faces mere inches from each other. 

“I’m the only one you want to be a mindless beast.” He bares his teeth, and it’s half a show and half genuine anger. Performances still. 

“Does that ease your guilt?” He sneers. “Do you pretend that my dumb, animal lust is what makes you bend over for me?” 

“I thought I told you to _shut up.”_

“No, I don’t take orders from a _bitch_ pretending to be any higher or mightier than me.”

She hates how the name calling sends a throb of arousal through her. When did she let him get the upper hand here?

“This is the game now, Doctor,” the Master rumbles. “You’ve already set the stage. Wild animals don’t sit around and argue. We _fight_ and _fuck_ and we _certainly_ don’t feel _guilty_ about it.” 

Is that what he wants? Is that what _she_ wants? To let go, to pretend, and through the lie express truth? The things they can’t say, can’t admit to?

The Master’s mind is too deep within hers not to pick up on what she’s thinking. He gives her a wry, bittersweet smile. 

_Isn’t that what we’ve been doing already, love?_

She rises to her feet. He looks surprised, maybe even hurt— no, the pain’s gone now. Maybe it hadn’t ever been there. Wishful thinking. 

She feels like she’s standing blindfolded on a precipice and she doesn’t know which side the edge is on. Maybe she wants to fall. 

“Catch me,” she whispers. This time, she does see the split-second relief on his face. It disappears in a blink, but she knows. They’re in this together. Her mind twines around his: a caress, almost. 

Then she’s gone, sprinting off into the forest. He’s on her heels, as he always has been, and always will be.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "it just stays shaking," or: "dehumanizing your friend/lover will inevitably bite you in the ass. And so will they if you're not careful." 
> 
> A final chapter (+porn) will be coming.
> 
> Bonus points if you caught my reference to the Survival serial. Also, I am extremely proud of "Maybe she wants to fall./'Catch me.'"


	3. Three

She runs. 

It’s a game, now. She’s naked and filthy and flying through the forest, giving it her all as the Master pursues her. So is he. Any trace of his trembling weakness is gone; she hears him bark out a delighted laugh behind her. 

They’ve already settled into their new roles quite nicely. His mind is roaring _hunt/take/mate_ through their connection, as an impulse instead of articulate words. It’s a brutal and clumsy method of telepathy, one that forcibly projects its message out without regard for its audience. Where a sentient telepath would politely request a connection

_(contact)_

this is like shouting at someone’s walls so loudly that they crack and let sound through. It’s the rude, untrained telepathy of a psychically active beast.

She has her part to play too. She throws all politeness to the wind and blasts an inviting yet coy _chase/catch/mate_ in reply. 

The guilty weight that has sat in her stomach for months has eased, because this is _real._ This game is the truth they can’t say, out of fear, out of shame. They are not in the roles of predator and prey, with a victor and a loser. No— they’re a mated pair, complementing one another: giving and receiving and taking and yielding in equal measure. Inevitably tempering each other and finding equilibrium. She is his; he is hers. 

Her hearts are racing as she sprints through the undergrowth. He’s not far behind. She can hear his footfalls. She imagines him on her heels with his mitts outstretched, just inches from taking her down. The thrill of being chased is adrenaline in her blood. 

They’re animals right now, so she isn’t going to give the privilege of mating to just any male. He has to prove himself, take her down and stake his claim. If he’s worthy (and she knows he is, is wet for him because of it) he’ll catch her. She can’t wait. 

She makes a sharp left turn, leaping over a fallen log. She hasn’t had the time to familiarize herself with the environment like he has, but she designed this place. She knows the layout from a top-down perspective. Hopefully that will give her an edge. 

Abruptly, she realizes there’s a wrench in her plans. The Master’s collar. If this goes the way she wants it to go, she needs to turn off the current protocol. 

Well, he’s close enough for the collar to hear her voice. With his mitts on he should still be enough for her to handle. It'll be fine.

“Cancel enclosure protocol!” She yells. She can feel confusion from the Master for a moment, then white hot satisfaction as the collar chirps in response to her command. A moment later he’s back in character, hissing and snapping at her heels. Another thrill goes through her. He can catch her now, and be as rough and animalistic as he wants. She’s so wet with excitement. 

The Master sends a mental image like grapeshot through their connection. It’s the last time they had sex, from his perspective: she’s whining beneath him as he thrusts to completion. It’s accompanied by the sense memory of her clenching around his length, and the echo of pleasure almost makes her stumble into a tree. He’s playing dirty. 

She wants to tease him, look back and accuse him of cheating. But that’s not what animals do, so she shoves his mental image away and keeps running. She can hear him growl behind her. 

She darts to her right, towards the sound of the river. If she remembers correctly, it’ll be narrow enough here to let her jump across. Then she can head north (or at least the north simulated by this Earthen setting) to some higher ground. He knows these trees too well. Best take him out of his comfort zone. 

Yes, there’s the river. Narrow as a stream, albeit flowing a few meters below her at the bottom of a shallow ravine. It looks like a knife has gouged a line in the landscape. She has the momentum to leap and soar across the gap with plenty of clearance, not even breaking her stride when she lands. 

It’s disconcerting for her to hear the sound of him jumping and sticking the landing but a few moments after she does. He’s right behind her. Has he been letting her keep a lead? Making her think she’s fast when he’s really just humoring her?

If he is, well, she can play dirty too. As she thunders through the woods she blasts another _chase/catch/mate,_ but this time with the mental equivalent of a raised brow. Then, not giving him time to reply, she sends him an image. 

Another, faster male who has already tackled her to the dirt. She’s slick with arousal as he mounts her, and her head is lowered in submission as he bites her neck. His face isn’t important; what _is_ is that it’s not the Master. If he’s going to waste her time, then she’s going to mate with another male who _doesn’t_. 

The Master roars, all red-tinted primal fury. She has just enough time to smirk, pleased at successfully provoking him, before he slams into her back and bowls her over. She hits the ground hard enough to make her teeth clack in her skull. She hisses. 

She’s basing her behavior on a species of predatory felines native to the Dreff asteroid belt. She won’t give up until he’s pinned her, and even then she’ll give him a fight. Has he clued in to the species she’s modeling yet, or is he just reacting naturally to her? 

Either way, the Master is on top of her, chuffing like he’s won. Like she’s that easy. She rears up, toppling him off of her back. He lands on the ground beside her and she whirls to snarl at him. Her mind is blaring nothing but a wordless challenge. If she’s going to be cornered, the claws are coming out. 

The Master rights himself, dark eyes burning. But this time, there’s no fever in them. Just desire. It’s rolling off of him mentally, too, starting to create a feedback loop between them. 

She growls again, baring her teeth. So what if she’s wet enough that she can feel slick on her inner thighs? He still has to earn the privilege of fucking her. 

The Master thumps his paws on the ground and answers her aggression with an impressive roar. Then he gives a toss of his head that flicks his bangs out of his eyes. Almost like he has a mane. (She’s glad he put the pieces of the Dreffan puzzle together.) 

She won’t be cowed, though. She meets his eyes without fear or any sign of submission. _Bring it on._

He takes it as the challenge it’s intended to be, and pounces. She lunges to meet him. 

The blunt force of his paws hits her first. They land back down in the (thankfully soft) dirt, snarling and snapping at each other. It’s not the violence of before, loaded with the intent to kill— this is just courting. 

Passion and violence have always been intertwined with them. _(“It’s our Paris.”)_ He bites her shoulder hard enough to break the skin and she retaliates by raking her nails down his sternum. He jerks back to bellow and she smells blood. It could be his, under her nails and welling in four thin lines on his chest, or it could be hers, seeping from her shoulder and staining his teeth copper-red.

If she was the Doctor right now, she might be ashamed of how this turns her on more. But she isn’t. She stares him down with narrowed eyes, ready for his next move. Her breathing is quick, and not just from exertion. 

The Master takes the time to toss his head again and lick the blood off his teeth. The mere sight of his tongue swiping across his incisors is enough to make her want to roll over and put his mouth to better use. 

The Master clearly picks up on her train of thought, because he suddenly looks a _lot_ more smug. Like a cat who’s already got the cream. 

Puns again. Her mind tickles as she feels a bit of his amusement leak through his bestial persona. She almost rolls her eyes —it’s so _typical_ for him— before she remembers the game they’re playing. 

The Doctor raises her chin and sniffs imperiously. She sends the image of her and the rival male again, this time interlaced with a fiction that his territory borders the Master’s. It would be easy for her to escape his clutches and let his rival have her instead. It’s the sort of immediate context one has in dreams sometimes, except she can tailor it to her specifications and inject it into waking thoughts. An old Gallifreyan trick. 

It’s a point of pride that she can tell the moment it lands. Possessiveness flashes in his eyes, sharp and unwavering. He won’t let her go. Not now, not ever. 

The Master surges forward, and they hit the ground fighting again. Neither of them would dream of pulling their punches, so it’s just as brutal the second time. The Master is using his mitts to his advantage, landing clubbing blows that she feels in her bones. Every time she returns the favor with her nails or a sharp bite. 

The Master feints left and she falls for it. It’s a move he’s pulled since they first started to fight in melee combat, and she’s just as susceptible to it now as she was then. Just like all of his stupid pseudonyms and disguises. She overextends too far to block his fake swipe, and the Master seizes the opportunity to tackle her. 

They collide and she hits the ground. He’s a strong, solid weight on top of her, using his paws to batter her back down when she tries to rear up. He’s learned from last time. She gives a vindictive howl and thrashes regardless. If she can manage to jostle him a little bit to the side, she can overthrow him. 

Then the Master bites her neck and everything goes white. Her aggressive snarl stutters out as the fight drains from her. Her nerves are singing with pain and screaming with pleasure. 

_mine/Doctor/mate/mine_

Hisses the Master through their link, in that brutal animal telepathy. She shudders beneath his fangs, beneath his weight on her back and in her mind. It’s overwhelming. Nothing exists for her but him now. How can she deny him what they both want? 

_yours/mate/yours/yours/yours_

Spills from her like a confession. The Master growls, pleased, and loosens his jaw. She stays prone beneath him, quaking. He’s rarely this brutal on her sensitive neck— she’s already bursting at the seams with heat and energy. 

The Master keeps his teeth on her neck as he shifts to mount her properly. She can feel the head of his cock rub across her slick thigh. He’s just as turned on as she is. She raises her hips, but he only succeeds at grinding his erection against her entrance. He snuffles and grunts with frustration. 

Turns out there is something to be said for opposable thumbs. The Doctor reaches back and grasps him. His hips stutter forward a bit at her touch, betraying just how keyed up he is. He growls into her neck but lets her guide the tip of his cock inside of her. 

The moment he breaches her triumph burns through his mind and he rams himself in to the hilt. The Doctor yelps. He doesn’t stop at her cry, doesn’t even let concern color his thoughts. He’s a beast fixed on mating, nothing more. 

It’s perfect. The Master starts a brutal pace, finally letting go of her neck now that she’s where he wants her. The slide is easy with how wet she is. He fills her up completely, thick enough for her to feel the stretch but not enough to hurt. A hard thrust hits the sweet spot inside of her and she gasps out, struggling to hold herself up as he mercilessly ruts into her. His mind is creating a feedback loop of pleasure with hers, sensation upon sensation building until nothing else matters.

Her clit is untouched and throbbing. The Master must pick up on this, because suddenly her neurons are firing like she’s being stroked with the tip of a feather. All the barely-there sensation does is make her groan with frustration. It’s not enough, won’t be enough, and he _knows._ He’s toying with her. 

She growls in an attempt to get him to knock it off. He does— but suddenly having no stimulus on her clit is even worse. She can feel him smirk into her shoulder, imagines him grinning with still-bloody teeth. 

“Fucking cheater,” she hisses, mask slipping. Her head is spinning with need. His thrusts have only gotten faster as he takes what he wants. 

The Master tsks in her ear at her break in character. She retaliates by clenching her cunt around him and savors the way he moans. 

“The other bloke would get me off,” she gripes, imagining the rival male she’s been provoking him with. He bites her ear as a reprimand.

“You’re mine, don’t pretend otherwise.”

Then there’s the feeling of fingers on her again, slowly massaging her aching clit. It’s more than last time; she bites back a gasp. He has the audacity to chuckle. 

She can feel the stubble on his cheek as he leans in. “No more rebellious streaks. You know where you belong.” 

At that, she makes sure he feels the way her temper flares. It doesn’t faze him. She suddenly gets the suspicion that he’s been holding back again— not physically this time, but mentally. He has an ace hidden up his sleeve. Of course he does. 

He’s speaking in her ear, voice a dangerous purr. “It’s best you keep it within your own species, anyways. After all, no one else can _breed_ you like I can.”

His words make a choked cry escape her. It’s impossible, has been since the Pythia’s curse, but in the heat of it all that knowledge doesn’t matter. She wants it. More than anything. Her cunt spasms around him. 

“Would you like that?” The Master croons. “You getting round and heavy with my child?” When she sobs out a moan and nods he nips at the nape of her neck as a reward. Pain and pleasure all at once; what he knows she likes best, and what he’s always given her. 

“I’d like that. You, all soft and helpless, teats leaking, dependent on your Master.” 

He snaps his hips harder. “I’ll give you a whole fucking _litter.”_ He punctuates his words with a sharp tug on her nerves and the Doctor is gone. Her orgasm crashes in around her like a wave. The Master groans as she tightens around him, quickly ushering him towards his own peak. His paws dig harder into her. His thrusts are prolonging her own pleasure, making her whine. 

“Breed me, Master, _please—“_

The Master chokes out a moan and comes. She imagines his erection pulsating and shooting inside her, that she’s fertile and he’s filling her. It makes her shudder with pleasure. The image is heady, a fantasy she didn’t even know she had. He’s always been good at figuring those out. 

The Master drops his head to rest on her shoulder blade. She savors the waning glow of her orgasm, letting it warm her. They’re both panting and sticky with sweat. 

He softly kisses her shoulder. His mind is curling around hers, stroking its facets similar to how he might rub her back. It feels like she’s being held.

When the Master pulls out she flops down onto the earth, exhausted. He settles next to her, stretching out his limbs and exhaling slowly. She doesn’t speak. She can’t bring herself to ruin the moment. He’s being so gentle through their telepathic link, tender like the lover he can be when they _(don’t)_ pretend. 

She sighs with contentment when he shifts closer and they are skin to skin. It’s easy to tuck her face into his chest and listen to his hearts. His strong arms wrap around her. 

Her eyes are drooping. It’s safe to be around him now, she knows from their mental bond. It’s just them and the forest. She can rest easy for once. His fingers carefully run through her hair, stroking her scalp and avoiding the many tangles. It sends tingles of pleasure down her spine, sweet and easy. 

She wishes everything between them could always be this simple. Does he secretly yearn for the same thing, someplace deep in his mind that’s inscrutable to her?

She knows he’s picking up on these questions, but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t offer an answer. He rarely does. But she’s still in his embrace, drifting off to gentle slumber. He’s still running his fingers through her hair and caressing her mind like something beautiful yet fleeting. Almost like he fears she will be leaving him again. 

_I’m here,_ she reassures him. _I’ll be here._

 _I know,_ he murmurs, and it’s nothing but the truth. He kisses her temple. She nuzzles closer, yawning. She can feel his fond smile by the way their link warms with affection. 

Then sleep takes her like a rising tide. 

X

When she wakes, she’s alone. Beside her are two empty mitts and the shallow impression the Master left in the soil. It’s all cold— he’s long gone. 

She almost isn’t surprised. She lets out a long breath as she imagines him extricating himself from her sleeping form, using his teeth to get the mitts off and sneaking away.

She picks one of them up, turning it over in her hands. Then a particular sense memory bubbles up: him carding his fingers through her hair, before she had even gone under. She wants to kick herself for not noticing. Or rather, she wishes she wanted to. Because all she _can_ think about is how he stayed, even when he could have knocked her out and fled. 

She closes her eyes and bows her head, remembering. Perhaps he had been lulling her to sleep with his soft touches, but everything that happened between them had been genuine. Their masks were dropped, their roles abandoned. Maybe that’s why she hurts so much. 

Her mind is quiet— alone. There isn’t a lead weight in her stomach anymore. But there is a space next to her hearts, empty and aching and shaped just like him. It’s what got her into trouble in the first place, all those years ago back when they were children. 

It won’t ever leave. But she takes some comfort in the fact that he hurts the same way, that her absence is just as keenly felt. They’ll find each other again. It’s inevitable. 

The Doctor lets the mitt in her hands fall back to the ground. Soon, she’ll have to pick herself up and pretend that she doesn’t miss him. 

But for now the forest is silent, and the Doctor lets herself grieve for the sounds the trees will never hear again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a bittersweet ending, but there's no way to tie this up that doesn't have some feelings with it. Everything is complicated when it comes to these two. 
> 
> Thanks again to Theseus for 1) writing the awesome fic that inspired this and 2) being gracious enough to allow me to continue even after correcting my initial presumptuousness. It means a lot.


End file.
